Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (5 page)

Diana turned to leave, but her mother’s hand stayed her. “Did you see where Mr. Sinclair went before we left the library?”

“No, why?”

“We cannot be sure he will let us stay here at Brisbane House, you know, and I think it best to find out whether he means for us to stay or go.”

“So soon?” Diana asked. Her mother merely looked at her gravely and said nothing, and Diana knew it was necessary. “I . . .I don’t remember. I suppose he might be in his room—certainly he looked as if he might fall asleep where he sat during the reading of the will.”

Her mother nodded. “I will find him and ask.”

“Will you need me, do you think?”

Mrs. Carlyle smiled. “No, it is not necessary. Do go to see the curricle. Mr. Sinclair seems a kind gentleman, perhaps enough to house us while we find a place to settle, at least.”

Diana nodded slowly, and with a kiss on her mother’s cheek, proceeded down to the stables.

When Diana reached the stables, she saw that they had a new stablehand. She smiled at him briefly before saying, “Where is Bob Staples?”

The thin, awkward youth smiled shyly and took off his hat, ducking his head. “‘E got ill, miss, did Bob. Started squeaking about ‘is blinkers, and McKinney sent ‘im ‘ome, and Bob sent me to take ‘is place—I’m ‘is cousin, miss, beggin’ yer pardon.”

“His eyes?” Diana frowned. “I am sorry to hear it—is a doctor seeing to him? I hope it is not serious.”

The stablehand rubbed his forehead in thought. “I dunno, miss. But me aunt ‘as got summat to fix it.”

Diana fished in her pocket for some coins and pressed them into the youth’s hand. “Here—please give this to your aunt, in case Bob needs to see a doctor. Bob’s a good young man, and I would like to have him return.” The youth’s face fell, and she continued hastily: “Though I’m sure you’ll do good work and prove yourself capable—” She paused, for she realized she did not know his name.

“Nate, miss, Nate Staples,” he said.

“Nate, then. I am sure the new Lord Brisbane will need more servants, and if you show yourself to be a hard worker, I can recommend you,” she said, recklessly committing Mr. Sinclair’s—she bit her lip—the new earl’s resources to the upkeep of the stables. But she had continued supervising them as she had when her uncle was alive, and the earl must know of it by now. However, he had said nothing to stop her.

Nate’s face brightened and he bobbed his head in a respectful bow. “I’d be grateful if you could, thank you, miss.”

Diana smiled, then proceeded into the carriage house just behind the stables.

The curricle sat propped up and leaning to the side, a little like a boat that had been tossed ashore against rocks after a storm. The fine wood of the carriage body was marred from the overturning that day of the accident; she could see the clawlike scars where it had been dragged for a short distance after it fell.

Fell . . . She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the damage, but it only brought horror-tinged images of how the horse had gone wild, and how the carriage had overturned—slowly, it seemed in her memory, though she knew it must have been too quick to let her uncle jump free.

Tentatively, she put her hand out as if the curricle were a wild creature with fur and teeth. Silly, of course. She pressed her hand firmly on it. The wood was smooth and cool to the touch, rough where it had been scored by the rocks in the road. It is just a curricle, Diana thought, a carriage. Not a deadly monster ready with gaping jaws to tear and destroy. Her mother clearly felt as if it were, and for that reason would not go near the carriage house, at least for now.

Diana could understand her mother’s feelings; the accident had torn a hole in the fabric of their lives and it was not a thing so easily stitched up. But she had other memories: memories of her uncle handing her the reins, and how nervous she had been, yet happy and proud that he had such confidence in her; the first tentative lurch of the carriage; and finally after several practice drives, the thrill of increasing speed over the newly macadamcd road.

She could not look upon the curricle with horror when she also remembered so much joy. Her uncle had felt confident enough in her abilities to bequeath it to her. She would have it repaired immediately, perhaps try it out a few times to make sure it drove as well as it used to, and out of respect for her mother’s grief, sell it. Perhaps, if she and her mother could still stay at Brisbane House, she could use the money to buy a less expensive and more sedate carriage. A gig, for example. She grimaced at the thought of “sedate” then grinned. A high-perch phaeton, perhaps. Not as sporting as a curricle, but certainly not sedate, and certainly quite fashionable. There! That should keep her family from criticizing, and she could turn her thoughts to other matters.

Such as the very annoying and embarrassing stipulation in the will regarding her
possible
marriage to Mr. Sinclair—or rather, Lord Brisbane. She thought of the man who wore the title, and it sat ill on her tongue. Such a frivolous man could not be worthy of it, or at least not as worthy of it as her uncle had been.

“Miss Carlyle—”

Diana jumped, then gasped as she quickly turned, for her hand caught hard on a large splinter of broken wood. It hurt, even with the strong kid riding glove she wore, and she cradled it in her other hand.

It was Mr. Sinclair—Lord Brisbane. He raised his brows. “You have injured yourself . . . because I have startled you, I am sure.” He took her hand and bowed over it, but did not release it. “May I look at it?”

“You are not a physician,” Diana said, then gasped again at the pain as she tried to pull away.

“True, but I know something of injuries and of healing.” A grim look settled about his mouth for a moment, and Diana wondered how he had come to know of such things. She relaxed and allowed her hand to remain in his.

He took off his gloves, then slowly, carefully, her glove, his head bent a little, his eyes concentrating on her hand. Diana glanced at him, glad he was not looking at her, for she felt . . . a strange unease, a shiver that should have made her want to pull away from him, but did not. If he had looked at her she did not know what he would have seen on her face—embarrassment, perhaps, but not exactly that. She pressed her lips together firmly—how silly she was!

The earl turned over her hand and pressed it gently, then looked at her questioningly. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“A little.”

He slid his thumb a bit, a caressing movement, catching on her skin; his thumb seemed slightly callused. He pressed down, a little harder.

“Ah!”

“It hurts there, then.” He took her hand between his, rubbing lightly. “Bruised, I believe, but not badly.” His rubbing became more firm, and Diana could not help staring at how the long, elegant fingers of one hand smoothed over the palm of hers, while his other cradled the back of her hand like an egg in a nest. The strokes of his fingers were hypnotic, moving over the hollow of her palm, up and around the pads just at the base of her fingers and her thumb. She closed her eyes, letting out a slight breath, her hand relaxing, limp, at last.

“Is that better?”

Her eyes shot open. “Yes, of course—that is, yes,” she stammered. He still held her hand; she quickly pulled it away.

He smiled widely, then grew somber, but she could not help thinking he was smiling still, somehow. She felt heat rise in her face and she turned away to the curricle. “Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners.

“You are welcome,” Lord Brisbane replied. He tapped the curricle with a finger. “It must have been a magnificent carriage. I can see, here, how it was joined.” He ran his fingers over a seam of the carriage body, and Diana thought of how those fingers had moved over the palm of her hand. “This is very fine workmanship.”

She drew in a resolute breath and let it out, determined to banish the odd, unsettled sensation that had seized her. “Yes,” she replied. “My uncle always went to the finest carriage makers in London. To buy anything less, he believed, was a false economy. A carriage made with the best workmanship and parts will last at least twice as long as one of the inferior make—” Her breath caught. Except for this one, she thought.

“Except for this one,” he said quietly, and her eyes flew to his, startled that his words had echoed her thoughts. His expression was kind and held, she thought, a measure of pity.

She did not want his pity. She lifted her chin and said, “This shall last as long as a new one, for I intend to have it repaired.”

Lord Brisbane nodded. “It is not badly damaged, true, and I am sure once it is back to its fine form it will bring in a pretty penny.”

This was precisely what Diana had intended to do, but somehow it irritated her to have
him
say it. It was
hers
, her uncle had given it to her, and it was the only thing she had of him except for memories. She would not even have a home, only if this Lord Brisbane so decreed. Rebellion rose: the curricle was
hers
and
she
would say what would be done with it, not him.

She smiled grimly. “I shall repair it—and then
drive
it.”

Lord Brisbane’s brows rose, in skepticism, she thought. “I believe that is not wise.”

Diana looked him in the eyes, her chin tilting a fraction higher. “I am very experienced in driving it, believe me. My uncle taught me, and he was confident in my abilities.”

“And yet,” Lord Brisbane said gently, “he met his end with this carriage.”

“Are you saying my uncle had his accident because
he
was at fault?” Diana demanded. His lordship merely gazed at her, his eyes half closed, looking down his nose at her as if again in skepticism. It infuriated her. “His lordship was a superior horseman and whip. He belonged to the Four-in-Hand Club. No one,
no one
, can say he could not handle his horses.” “And yet, this time, he did not.”

“I do not expect you to understand such things,” she said, looking him up and down, barely able to conceal her anger, and squashing down a growing dread. “Perhaps there was some fault with the carriage, the way it was made, that did not appear until that moment. I don’t know, but whatever it was, I intend to have it repaired. But it was
not
Uncle Charles’s fault.”

“If your uncle was such a good driver, how was it that he did not notice anything awry from the outset?”

“If there was anything awry with the carriage he most certainly would have noticed it, and if not he, then McKinney, our head groom.”

“But the groom noticed nothing as well?”

“No.”

Lord Brisbane ran his hand over a curve of the carriage in a contemplative manner. He glanced at her. “I understand this McKinney has been in your uncle’s employ for many years.” It was a statement, but with just a hint of a question in it.

Diana frowned. She had heard of landlords who, upon inheriting an estate, proceeded to rid themselves of all the old servants and replace them with their own handpicked ones. It was a stupid practice, inefficient, and bound to cause ill will in the surrounding neighborhood. “If you are thinking of blaming McKinney for the accident or of discharging him from his post, I would advise against it. The man has been employed here since my uncle was a very young man, and his service has been loyal and faultless. Indeed, he felt most deeply regarding the accident and proffered his resignation, which I refused to consider.”

“You?”

Diana blushed lightly; it was not her place to accept or decline a servant’s employment unless it was her own, personal, servant. “McKinney was distraught, and Uncle Charles had said more than a few times that my word was as good as his when it came to the stables,” she said stiffly. “If you must know, I directed him to Sir James, thinking he would be the heir.”

“Ah.”

That was all he said, an unassuming sound, but it made her very conscious that she had presumed, and presumed wrongly. “Sir James will not have discharged him, I am sure,” she said.

“Mmm hmm,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully.

Diana shifted her feet uncomfortably. “I am sure McKinney is about somewhere. You may speak to him yourself.”

“Is he?”

“But of course. I saw him—” She stopped and realized she had not seen McKinney lately. “Surely Sir James did not . . .”

“There may be some other explanation for why McKinney is not here,” Lord Brisbane said.

Diana made herself look at him, but she could not hold his gaze long, for remorse hit her hard. “I have presumed a great deal,” she said. “And I was wrong to do so. I . . .I apologize.”

“Yes,” he replied, but there was no censure in his voice. She felt a finger under her chin and she stared at him. He smiled slightly. “Come, cousin, it is no tragedy. Let us be frank: I well know that your uncle’s wish that we wed was unexpected, and highly unusual. Would it be less awkward for you to know that I had no knowledge of it? I met your uncle only a year ago, when he first found me, and because of business our subsequent meetings were infrequent. Had I known of the conditions, I would have protested, of course. I am not certain why he decided we should suit, but he did, and made it nearly impossible for you not to comply.”

“Mama said it was perhaps the closest he could come to giving me the estate . . . he thought of me as a daughter, almost a son, I think.” His hand left her chin, and she looked down at her hands, then up at the earl again. “Then, too, perhaps he thought it the best way to take care of me and my mother.”